The morning is bright and crisp. The long, doubled rope of the swing out back vibrates with the wind—each strand of line separating and then coming back to the other again and again. Occasionally a powerful gust of wind will come and sweep the entire swing upward and then back again, like a swaying pocket watch used in hypnosis.

The bay is hidden in a field of white. A large shadow of the giant pine drapes over the sparkly surface, evidence of the sun having recently risen. There is only one uncovered stream of water in the distance—rolled out like a navy blue carpet across the landscape of white.

In the hallway there are a string of deflated balloons—yellow and orange and green—still tied together with golden, curling ribbon. In the bathroom, the wide sink surface is covered in diamond shaped cardboard—Adrian’s current ambition to use toilet paper rolls that he has wet, uncurled and dried for collection and creation.

His impulse to repurpose household materials for art brings a smile to my face. My heart expands in recognition of the ways we rub-off on our children. Some of them are good.

I don’t know what I was thinking booking a flight that departed at dawn. Waiting to pack until just before bed, I noticed a slight pulsing pain in my head, the turning of my stomach. I set my alarm for three hours before we would be taking off and climbed into bed with ample time to rest.

Closing my eyes, I found myself on a carnival ride—the Gravitron in my mind spinning me around and around as if I were in my 20’s again having had too much to drink.

My options seemed bleak. I imagined having to cancel my trip—disappointing a grieving friend. I thought about the risks of bringing illness out into the world and to those who I love.

I wondered whether the maladies flooding our community had taken root in me—our bodies and minds so absorbent of the experiences of others—also, germ theory.

The hours passed, I didn’t sleep.

Instead I searched around myself for a place that was well—for an energy I recognize, even in my most debilitating moments when it shows up as only a tiny spec of hope.

I both greeted the discomfort entirely—swinging around on the tilt-o-whirl inside of me—and simultaneously expanded the stream of what I can only describe as perfect wellness, allowing it to flood the rest of my body with its vigor.

Beneath my doubts, a mantra pulsed through me, “I am well.”

A new reality was explaining itself to the cells of me. One by one they were jumping on board in deference to the Universal flow that is always at our service.

I have needed to be sick at times. I have collapsed feverish into rest like a corpse—freeing myself from the demands of doing and holding and keeping pace with the rapid swirl of the world. I have allowed the opportunity of illness to be revealing in its potent delivery of directives.

I have used medicine to help me heal—to ward of germs or promote wellness when I haven’t had the impulse or energy to will a change in the state of my body.

Even as I invited a shift in my being, I accepted the possibility that my early morning path would not look the way I hoped it would.

I straddle the worlds of personal, creative power and the mystery of the will of the Gods and biology—one leg each on either side of a seesaw catapulting through space and time.

I finally collapsed into a nourishing rest for about an hour before I needed to get up.

When my alarm sounded, my head was clear. I felt steady and strangely rested. I checked in with myself again and again as I showered and got dressed and rolled my weekend travel bag down the hallway in the dark, my two children draped with blankets in the winter’s night.

I was fully well.

Traveling so early, I found myself on the second leg of my journey in a row of seats by myself. I felt grateful for the extra space. It reminded me of traveling alone when I was very young and before the time when flights are mostly oversold and packed tightly with little breathing room between passengers.

The temperature in the airplane was frigid. The flight-attendant was apologizing and handing out blankets. I layered up all of the clothing I had with me including my colorful, fingerless gloves.

I have been re-reading the books that have most influenced my life and way of being in the world. It is interesting revisiting them as a mother now and noticing the ways in which they sit with me differently.

One of the gifts of having children is the wider lens it offers us unto ourselves. I have found in witnessing my boys’ impulses and needs, their tendencies and humanity I have been able to unearth further the places in myself that have been shut-down and ignored.

In nurturing them I have come to value more my own right to well-being. I have come to forgive more readily my mistakes—like I would theirs.

We all arrive here with all that we need. Remembering who we are—our original essence—and accepting the exquisite lightness of that being is the task at hand.

Huddled in my seat—still fully well—I read and read and then I would occasionally place my head back on the seat, removing the elastic holding my hair in a knot so that I could be more comfortable, closing my eyes and drifting off into a peaceful rest.

Yesterday afternoon it snowed unceasingly for many hours. Jonah desperately wanted to have a family snowball fight. I was the only taker. We decided to go for a walk first knowing the battle would leave us wet and wanting to go back inside.

The snow was still coming down as we walked along our hushed and deserted road blanketed in white. I convinced him to walk all the way to the house with the yellow Hummer in the driveway—its color popping out like a canary on a birch branch.

Nearing our house again, Jonah stopped in the middle of the road and tipped his head back, closing his eyes. I took him in as his soft, pink cheeks greeted the wet snowflakes for a long while.

When he raised his head up, he told me how good it felt to do that. I said I would like to try. He looked on while I tipped my head back, closing my eyes and allowing the cold dampness to dot my face. I imagined the cool flakes thinning my makeup.

I noticed the refueling of my body engaged in the natural world.

When we got to the driveway, I gathered up the fluffy snow—too soft for a real snowball—and tossed it at Jonah. He took the bait and began running off toward his snow fort for shelter where he could ambush me in safe cover.

The snow we threw at each other separated like powder in the air again and again and we laughed breathlessly finally deciding that tomorrow would be a better day for real snowballs.

We decided to go down to the dock where a virtual tundra surrounded the shoreline. Jonah ventured out onto the boulder like structures of ice wanting to dip his gloves into the icy, watery mix at their base and create formations with this enticing mixture.

I kneeled down into the snow on the dock observing him, trying to notice and latch onto any warmth in my body so that I could stay out a few minutes longer.

When I awoke one special morning it was still black outside. Silently I rolled out of bed, pulling on a pair of scratchy, woolen socks and a cozy sweater. My littlest boy Adrian — still an early riser — urged me to greet the day while the rest of the house laid in quiet slumber. His voice called out to me through the monitor by my bedside — religiously attended for nearly two years now. Together we traipsed down stairs, eventually brewing coffee and greeting our kitty Autumn with a rub between her ears. Finally we came to the shade opening part of our morning ritual and through our front window we glimpsed a shimmering, white coating gracing our porch steps. Snow. My heart lightened. For me — a little girl still at heart — snow is a magical offering from nature. I turned on the outside light so that Adrian might better see. His eyes brightened at the sight, a sweet smile coming across his face. He’s taken to squinting his eyes when he smiles. Does he think he needs to be even sweeter than he already is? Our forecast had been for rain and so this crisp, white frosting was a treat. It came in gracefully for us, not like for those still suffering in the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. For those souls, I wished for warmth. I wished for dryness.

About an hour later, well caffeinated now, I heard Jonah, my bigger boy, calling to me from upstairs. He had made his way to our bed in the night and so he was all wrapped up in a too big comforter in a too big bed, his voice still groggy from a deep sleep. I liked the way his body looked so little that way in our oversized bed. It helped keep him small, young, in my mind. I’ve been mourning his grown up words, his grown up ideas, of late. I climbed in with him whispering that it had snowed. There was a slight pause and then he popped up in the bed, a contrast to his former sleepy self. His wide, strikingly blue eyes scanned the various windows in our bedroom overlooking a wintery scene. He wanted to go out and play right now! Within moments I had granted him permission to go outside as soon as we had eaten breakfast. I did this despite the fact that I have a book proposal due in less than a month, not a word written, and that morning was one of few that I would be able to get started. I did this also fully aware that it would be impossible to allow just one brother to depart on this great adventure, leaving my littler one behind.

I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly I could dress Jonah for the weather. He was eager, therefore cooperative. Adrian was a little more challenging. He stepped into his snow pants without coaxing. The coat had to be negotiated though and then the poor fellow had to stand in his seven layers at the front door sweating as I ran through the house trying to find the appropriate clothing to keep me toasty for what was sure to be a lengthy excursion. Children rarely notice their purple lips in the way that we adults do. I nearly slid down the stairs a couple of times in my haste. I discovered a pair of old ski pants and a coat that I had to step into with its broken zipper. There, ready. Adrian and I bounded outside and found Jonah already halfway through the shoveling of our steps. He is most happy when given a job. I sunk into our play forgetting about my plans for the morning. I became much more interested in the giant carrot we had chosen for our snowman’s nose, and how we might plant it deeply enough into his frosty face so that it might stay. A babysitter was supposed to be arriving and on some level I knew that she would cancel. Adrian dug in the snow with a small sand shovel and every now and then he would call out to me from just a few feet away, “alk.” I would go over to him and help him to “walk” to a new spot. He was still acclimating to this novelty of snow. Jonah toyed with his first real snow-ball fight. He knows generally that we don’t throw things at people and so he experimented with how it was ok now. I threw a snowball at him and accidentally hit him directly in his mouth! We both managed to laugh and I rushed to clean his face and make sure none of the snow went down the front of his jacket. I remembered that feeling. Snow somehow making its way into my winter jacket, down my turtleneck. I didn’t want for him to feel that.When we came inside I saw on my phone that our babysitter had cancelled. I was relieved. It was a good and cozy day for staying in.

It was a day full of reading and relaxing together. It was a day full of play. A snow day as I remember them. At one point we turned on some music and we were taking turns putting on dance shows for each other. My “smart” phone was on the coffee table and Jonah picked it up. He wanted to look at pictures. I am that person that Mac store employees loathe for keeping every photo and video I’ve ever taken on my phone and wondering why my phone is protesting. Jonah and Adrian giggled at a video of Adrian at five or six months old — he still glowed with that other-worldly quality of new babies. I felt a slight lump form in my throat. Oh how beautiful that time had been. We sat for a while, the three of us, looking back on our lives together. I wished I had a picture of us growing so cozy now on the couch. Eventually, Jonah managed to find his way to a video taken of him when he was just two years old. It was nearly two years ago but I remember the moment distinctly. It was July and Jonah and my husband were mopping our deck, ridding it of pollen and muck. Jonah appeared to be in charge and was demonstrating his love of a job even then. There was something about the quality of that video and of Jonah captured in that moment that said to me so clearly, it shouted to me, “you can’t go back.” You can never go back. There with my two boys cuddled on either side of me, I choked back a deep sob.

On days like today, challenging days, days where I have a cold, where I have been up since 4:30 am and feel like all of my words have fallen on deaf ears, I think of that moment. I remember that joyful day. How days can be. I remember that even these hard days, these very days of breathing deeply to maintain my presence, are ones that I might wish that I could go back to. And so I nurse my cough, fuel my soul with words and know that these are precious times.